


Get Lost

by subplotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: D/s, Face-Fucking, M/M, Mild Humiliation/Degradation, Shameless Smut, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy feels like everybody hates him. He goes to Bellamy for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this...semi-proofed. Set after the mid-season finale so there are spoilers. Cry about Murphamy with me at my [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com).

Murphy knew everyone else was crying, but he didn't feel much. He didn't usually feel much when he wasn't angry. Sometimes he felt the bite of sadness, but it changed quickly to anger for him most of the time. That was what he had taught himself to do. Now it was habit, inevitable. But sometimes it was like this--just a void. He had felt something for Finn once he'd gone murderous. He had understood, in a way. But he couldn't feel sad. He was more worried about survival. Because Clarke hated him, and Raven hated him, and Finn hadn't hated him, but he was dead.

Murphy heard the screams. He heard them from Bellamy's tent, where he knew he shouldn't be, because this was not something that was customary for them. Murphy never came to his tent without something important to say, something that Bellamy would see as worthy of his energy, something he needed to Do Something About. He didn't want to be an annoyance, after all; that was counter-productive. He was trying to fit in. He was trying to get on everybody's good sides. He did not want to be left behind again, sent away like some insect everybody felt would crawl on them if they didn't kill it right away.

But he had come here because Bellamy was the only one who didn't hate him, it seemed. And Bellamy was practical. And if you didn't piss off Bellamy and did what he told you to do, you could be alright with him. Even if you'd strung him up and told him expressly that you'd wished he were dead. Even if you'd brought a virus back to camp. Even if you'd literally crippled someone and failed to stop the golden boy from killing children.

When Bellamy returned, catching sight of Murphy at the last moment, he didn't jump in surprise as some people might have. His tired gaze just hardened a fraction. "What are you doing here."

The only bad thing about Bellamy, in Murphy's opinion, was that sometimes his mood influenced the way he treated you, and if you didn't do exactly what he expected and silently planned for you to do, then he got like this. Clipped. Mean.

Murphy didn't flinch. He just cut up his eyes from where he sat cross-legged on the ground, giving Bellamy the same dead smirk he always gave him. This was habit for Murphy lately too. He couldn't see Bellamy without feeling something positive, though he wouldn't quite call it happiness. (Though sometimes, when he was alone, he had very dark thoughts about Bellamy, thoughts that made bile come up from his stomach and burn his throat.)

"The Grounders scare me," he lied. Though he supposed it wasn't _really_ a lie, once the words fell so easy from his lips, but he wasn't thinking about that. Not consciously. But his instincts knew that it was best to look like he was hurting in front of Bellamy. Bellamy liked to fix people up. Of course, Murphy had been in pain in front of Bellamy many times only to be left for dead. Murphy blamed himself for the poor delivery there.

"Can't you hide in your own tent?" Bellamy crossed the floor and took his rifle off his back, setting it upright on the ground.

Murphy shifted position, lifting himself up with his arms and pivoting to face the other. He drew his eyes down the line of Bellamy's body, something he could do only when Bellamy was faced away like this. "No. Raven might shoot me."

Bellamy turned to give Murphy a look, like he was being ridiculous. Then he resumed what he'd been doing, stripping himself of his jacket now, so that he was down to a muddy green tank.

Murphy swallowed. Sometimes the dark thoughts he had about Bellamy felt good. "Finn was my friend," he said eventually.

Bellamy sighed. He rolled his tank over his head and looked back at Murphy once it was balled up in one of his big hands, a pained crease between his brows. God, he looked exhausted. Like maybe he could actually feel the death instead of being numb like Murphy was, numb but somehow still afraid. "Finn was everyone's friend."

"Yeah, but Clarke hates me. And Raven hates me."

"For good reason." Bellamy put his fingers to the fly of his cargos but then averted his eyes for a moment, dropping his fingers then.

Murphy smirked again. "But you don't hate me."

Bellamy took a breath, exhaling through his lips. "No," he confirmed.

Murphy ducked his head a little, eyes still pointed up, smirk still in place. "You can undress in front of me. It's fine."

Bellamy squinted. He was looking at Murphy like he knew exactly what he meant. "I don't think so."

"Why not? You have girls in here all the time."

" _Girls._ "

The mischief disappeared from Murphy's face and his expression went cold. He looked down at his dirty fingers. He could feel the bile churning in his stomach, could taste it in the back of his throat. He wanted to say something more--dig himself out of his shallow little hole--but the words wouldn't come.

Eventually, though, he heard the scrape of a zipper and Bellamy's breath huffing out his nose. When he spoke his tone was resigned. _Fine. Whatever._ "Get up on your knees."

Immediately, Murphy complied, though he did so with another roll of his throat, fingers clenching in the ground below him as he pushed himself up. He hardly had the time to look up before Bellamy was crossing toward him, cargos still hugging his hips until he pushed them down.

He was only half-hard. But Murphy's eyes were glued to that cock, fear and anticipation making his muscles tense. He watched it harden as Bellamy's hand gripped his hair, fingers digging into his scalp--which was always dirty, and always itched, and Murphy's nerves were glad for the scrape of nails, the tug to his follicles.

He could barely register that this was happening. Bellamy. Bellamy was going to use him for what he was always supposed to use him for.

"Open your mouth. Relax your throat."

At last, Murphy flicked his eyes up, meeting Bellamy's gaze. He looked intense but sure. Murphy gripped at the ground.

"Open your fucking mouth," Bellamy reiterated, and Murphy felt himself swell, felt his body grow warmer. He doubted Bellamy would be this way with a girl. But Murphy submitted, dropping his jaw and trying his best to make his throat slack. He had done this once before, in the sky box, but he doubted it would be the same. He wasn't in control this time.

Bellamy was surprisingly gentle, though. He slid slowly past Murphy's lips, until his cock hit the back of Murphy's throat. It didn't feel good, necessarily, but Murphy still made a sound, his own cock insistent inside his pants. He didn't have to do anything. When Bellamy began to move, he gripped Murphy's head with two hands and slid his lips back and down again, back and down again. Murphy shut his eyes. He tried not to gag. But the pressure against the back of his throat increased with each thrust, and soon he was gagging, that bile coming up to meet the precum nipping at his taste buds.

It was relaxing, in a way. Murphy got lost, the numbness seeming to swell and lift, easing further each time he heard Bellamy grunt or moan. He wanted him. His own arousal ached, and he made pitiful noises against Bellamy's cock, noises that would have come out shaky and weak if his mouth wasn't full.

Distantly, Murphy registered the gruff words, "I'm gonna cum." But he couldn't do anything about it. He could only prepare himself, and he reached up to claw at Bellamy's thigh when he thrust at his hardest. One--two-- And then there was cum shooting down his throat, and Murphy swallowed around Bellamy's cock, Adam's apple bobbing under the skin of his neck.

Bellamy muttered, "Fuck." He eased Murphy's mouth off of his length, until it was bouncing in front of Murphy's eyes, and God, he could hardly move. Everything felt hazy.

"Bellamy."

"You're okay."

"Please don't make me leave."

"Shh. Shh." Bellamy pulled up his pants and tucked himself back inside them, zipping the zipper, sliding the button through its hole. And then he lifted his leg and kicked Murphy back, foot pressing just hard enough to be uncomfortable against Murphy's chest.

The weight was only there for a moment. But the action flipped Murphy's stomach violently, and he writhed a little, hips arching up from the ground.

"Relax," said Bellamy, and Murphy thought he detected a little laughter in his voice. But he was soon down on the ground too, shifting Murphy's body for him, strong hands pulling at ankles, until Murphy felt quite comfortable. "I know what this is," Bellamy continued. "You like when people are forceful with you. When they get all dominant. Right?"

Murphy wasn't sure. But if this was what that was, then yes. _Yes._ His very skin seemed to seek out Bellamy's fingers, and he felt a bit of pleasure from the scrape of nails over his hip bones as Bellamy yanked down his pants.

"Please," was all Murphy could manage, and Bellamy laughed outright this time, as he dropped down over Murphy, his elbow down against the ground next to Murphy's shoulder, his knees on either side of his waist.

He wrapped his fingers around Murphy's length and began to stroke him. "I'd blow you but you never fucking wash yourself. Isn't that right?"

Murphy's stomach twisted, but it felt good. Like it felt good to think about Bellamy in the dark, when he was alone, when he couldn't sleep.

"I bet you've thought about this before," he went on, grip impossible as it moved up and down, the sensation almost too much for Murphy's stuttering hips to handle. "You follow me around like a damn puppy, Murph. I bet you think about me when you jack off."

 _Fuck._ Murphy made a strangled noise. He reached up to grip at Bellamy's shoulder, his orgasm hitting him with a sharp jolt of his own hips. Bellamy stroked him through it, shifting up to hold Murphy down with the opposite hand. Only when the sensation became painful--and Murphy was gasping and whining from the oversensitivity of it--did Bellamy slide his hand away, laughing again.

He was careful as he redressed Murphy's bottom half, soothing him with massaging thumbs in the bones of Murphy's hips. He kept the motion up for several moments, until Murphy seemed to fall back into reality, his expression unsettled as he set his eyes on Bellamy's.

"What the fuck," said Murphy, feeling strange, out of place, disoriented. He pushed himself up on his hands, bending his legs toward himself, watching Bellamy like he was an intruder in his own tent.

Bellamy's sated smile turned to a look of concern. "Hey, it's okay. I think you went into subspace."

"Subspace?"

"Yeah. I'll explain it to you later? I'm exhausted, Murphy."

Murphy furrowed his brows. He was tired too. That orgasm had been better than probably any he'd ever had, and his body was quite relaxed despite whatever his head was doing.

"Come on," said Bellamy, crawling over a foot or so until he was properly on top of his blankets, reaching out to tug Murphy toward him. "Bedtime. Right here."

"I can--"

"No. Come on." His fingers curled forcefully into Murphy's shirt, so that he had no choice but to fall down onto his side next to him, back pressed to Bellamy's front. One of Bellamy's arms wrapped around him, holding him firmly but comfortably. "Don't worry about anything," said Bellamy. "Just go to sleep."

And Murphy wasn't able to keep conscious for long after that. He was too comfortable. And he knew that by sleeping, he'd be doing exactly what he should be doing, and what Bellamy wanted.


End file.
